


in ink, graphite, pen

by regardinglove



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Artist Victor Nikiforov, First Meetings, Fluff, Getting Together, Jock Yuuri Katsuki, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-26
Updated: 2018-05-26
Packaged: 2019-05-14 05:14:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14763290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/regardinglove/pseuds/regardinglove
Summary: Victor bristles under Chris’s gaze and pouts like a child. “You know I don’t like parties.”“No, I know you don’t like boring parties. This one won’t be. I promise.”“How do you know?”“Because,” Chris says with a smile, reaching over to grab Victor’s chin between his fingers and turning his head to the side, “he’s here.”Or, Victor is an art god, adored and fawned over by all, except for the one person he wants to notice him more than anything. Yuuri is a well-loved jock, praised by thousands, but craves the attention of the man who's art brings him to his knees. When the two collide one drunken night, both will learn about life and love in ways they never have before, and find out their deepest desires may be closer than they've ever imagined.





	in ink, graphite, pen

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all! I am so excited to finally post the fic I pinch-hit for _Shall We Read: A YOI Literary Magazine_. Being a mod for this project has been a blast, and being in a zine with so many talented artists and writers was the experience of a lifetime. Enjoy!

Victor’s never been particularly fond of parties.

Sure, they can be fun with the right people and booze, but most of the time he finds them _tiring_. Staying up late into the night, keeping up conversation with perfect strangers, dealing with the loud music, the smell of alcohol and sweat, the pounding hangovers. He’d much rather be at his apartment, curled up with Makkachin while he watches classic movies and works on sketches for his senior project.

Which is why when Christophe pulls up in front of the Pi Kapp house, Victor immediately lets out a groan.

“I thought we were staying in this year,” Victor mutters under his breath, eyes trained on the throngs of people milling about the fraternity’s front lawn.

“We are. This party is on campus. That’s staying in,” Christophe chimes from his place behind the wheel. He reaches into the backseat and pulls out a plastic bag filled with masks and flower crowns and, to Victor’s horror, furry animal ears. Chris plucks a pair of black cat ones from the pile and adjusts them on his head, checking his reflection in the rearview mirror. “Georgi invited me this morning and said I can’t show up without you, so please, hurry up and pick your poison so I can get trashed.”

“I’m not going,” Victor says, crossing his arms over his chest and kicking his feet up onto the dashboard. A few strands of his long hair fall into his eyes and his brushes them back and away. “Give me the keys and I’ll come pick you up later.”

“Afraid not, cherie,” Christophe tsks under his breath. He turns off the ignition and twists so he’s facing Victor properly. “We haven’t had a night out in ages and it’s _Halloween_. When else can you drink ten hard ciders and not be judged for it?”

Victor bristles under Chris’s gaze and pouts like a child. “You know I don’t like parties.”

“No, I know you don’t like _boring_ parties. This one won’t be. I promise.”

“How do you know?”

“Because,” Chris says with a smile, reaching over to grab Victor’s chin between his fingers and turning his head to the side, “ _he’s_ here.”

Victor doesn’t have to ask who Chris is talking about; he’d be able to pick _him_ out of any crowd. Lounging against a nearby tree, looking gorgeous in a pair of tight fitting jeans and his Vicino University varsity jacket, is Yuuri Katsuki. He’s got a red solo cup clutched between his hands, index finger tapping absentmindedly against the rim. His eyes are cast downward, looking at the ground instead of the hoard of hockey players surrounding him. One of the guys tells a joke, and Yuuri body shakes with laughter, eyes crinkling up at the edges until he composes himself again. And when his best friend, Phichit, swoops in and drags Yuuri back to the party, Victor gets a perfect view of that perfectly round ass he’s so fond of.

The apples of Victor’s cheeks blush a brilliant red when Chris coughs under his breath.

“Interested now?’ Chris teases as he holds out the bag to Victor.

Victor just sighs and pulls out a flower crown. It’s made of blue roses and is a little small for his head, but after adjusting it to fit over his messy bun, he calls it good enough and opens the car door. “Fine. Let’s go.”

After exiting the car and wandering through the crowds, Victor and Christophe walk through the front doors and into the party’s core. Bodies are everywhere, dancing along with the rugged rock tune that is blaring over the loudspeakers. JJ, one of the fraternity brothers, sends the entire house into darkness before turning on a row of black lights that has everyone whooping in joy. Christophe yells over the din that he’s going to grab them drinks, then melts in with everyone else, getting lost among the chaos and leaving Victor alone.

He takes a few steps to the left so he’s not barring the doorway and takes refuge in a dark corner. His eyes scan the crowd, looking over the many familiar faces. Mila is talking closely with her girlfriend Sara, giggling as she takes a sip from her hard cider. Otabek is running the makeshift DJ booth, obviously ignoring the requests some drunken girls are throwing at him. He can spot Chris holding two beers and a red solo cup above his head as he navigates through the party, and glimpses Georgi arguing with Anya in the next room over.

But, as per usual, his eyes find their way back to Yuuri. Despite being one of the most popular athletes on campus, he looks out of place here. While Phichit talks with a group of girls Victor doesn’t recognize, Yuuri stays quiet, gaze flicking to the door constantly. He lobs his cup into a nearby trashcan and uses his now-free hands to scroll through his phone, the glow of the screen illuminating his furrowed brow, his pouty lower lip, his exhausted posture. It’s as if he’d rather be anywhere but here.

It’s a beautiful image, one that Victor wants, no, needs to archive on paper.

With no sketchbook in hand, Victor makes due with what he can find. A few feet away, a card table is filled with napkins; Victor takes one from the pile, then rummages around in his pocket until he finds one of his dull-tipped pencils. Hardly the best materials for an artist, but it’ll have to do.

He begins as he always does, slinking away until he’s out of eyesight. If Yuuri ever found out that he’s been drawing him ever since freshman year, the embarrassment would be enough for Victor to drop out of Vicino, change his name, and get on the first flight back to St. Petersburg. So Victor stays discreet, hiding in the corner as he flicks his eyes between his muse and his canvas, outlining his unruly hair, haunting eyes, full lips. He adds in Yuuri’s perfectly shaped eyebrows, glowing cheeks, sharp jawline, pearly teeth. Before he knows it, Yuuri is staring back at him.

“Oh my god, are you drawing Yuuri again?”

Victor jumps at the voice and shoves the napkin in his pocket before turning around. Chris stares back at him, tsking under his breath. “Do you not realize how creepy that is?”

“It isn’t _creepy_ … is it?”

“Oh Vitya,” Chris says with the shake of his head, holding out a red cup filled to the brim with questionably colored liquid. “Why won’t you just ask him out, if you’re so fond of him?”

“What is this?” Victor asks as he gazes warily down at the drink.

“Witches brew, love,” Chris says with a wink. “A glorious mixture of grape gelatin, pineapple juice, and approximately three bottles of vodka.”

“Sounds gross.”

“Oh, it is, but it will get you drunk faster than you can blink. But you’re avoiding my question, Vitya. Why are you drawing Yuuri in secret when you could, I don’t know, be normal and talk to him instead?”

Victor glances down at the floor. Why _won’t_ he talk to Yuuri? This isn’t high school; while they’re from completely different worlds, Yuuri being involved in almost every sport imaginable and Victor never leaving the art studio, that doesn’t mean they can’t speak to each other. But every time he’s tried, he’s held himself back. Maybe it’s because he wouldn’t know what to even say besides “hey, I think you’re beautiful and I want to paint a thousand pictures of you”, or maybe it’s because he’s afraid of ruining that perfect image of Yuuri he has in his mind.

Either way, it leaves Victor with a pang that aches through him, one that he can’t really even explain.

“Victor?” Chris asks when he doesn’t reply.

Victor lets out an annoyed sigh and taps his toe against the ground. He brings the cup to his lips and takes a large sip of the brew, grimacing at it goes down. Chris is right; the drink tastes terrible, but getting drunk on this is going to be easy as pie, which is exactly what he needs to get through tonight.

“We better find Georgi, be sure he didn’t break up with Anya again,” Victor comments as he takes another sip of drink, then plunges into the crowd without another word.

A few hours go by. Victor finds Georgi wailing in the living room, bemoaning the horrid nature of love and how he’d rather live his life alone. Of course he doesn’t mean it, Victor knows there is at least an eighty-five percent chance that he’ll be back together with Anya before the night is through, but he lets Georgi vent and take sips of the horrid vodka punch until he’s falling asleep. He half-carries Georgi up to his room, tucks him in, and tells Anya where to find him if she’s looking.

Along the way Christophe disappears, most likely to meet up with his “friend-with-benefits” Masumi, and Victor finds himself alone. He beelines for the frothing punch bowl and pours himself another glass, taking large sips as the party revs up around him. The alcohol feels good, warming him and making him looser than before. He reaches back and frees his hair from its tie, letting waves of silver fall around him. He lets Mila pull him into a dance, one that’s fun and free and fantastic. Sara joins in, along with Leo and an embarrassingly wasted Seung-gil, and before long they’re all jumping along with the music, belting out the lyrics to _Thriller_ and _Monster Mash._ Victor powers through his first round of witches brew, then his second, third, fourth. At first, he thinks Christophe was wrong; this drink is having no effect on him whatsoever. He’s amazing, perfect, never felt better.

Until he’s halfway through drink number five and everything goes black.

* * *

Yuuri has never been one for parties.

Of course, he’s invited to almost all of them on Vicino’s campus. His place on the football, swim, and hockey team means they’re almost unavoidable, but he doesn’t have to _like_ them. They’re too loud, filled with bad music and cheap booze and strangers he’d rather not talk to outside of class. More often than not, he’ll find himself wherever there’s a dog, avoiding conversation and counting the minutes until Phichit says he wants to go back to their room.

Tonight is no different.

Everything feels like a live wire around him. Bodies are knocking into him every time he takes a step forward, his ears are aching from the loud, pounding music, and his skin is crawling every time one of his drunk teammates slaps him on the ass. There’s so much noise, so much movement, it’s making him feel ill.

He needs fresh air. Now.

With that thought, Yuuri pushes through the crowd and emerges into the backyard. A few partygoers are milling about, sipping on JJ’s disgustingly strong punch, but otherwise it’s quiet, peaceful, a perfect antidote to the wildness inside.

The October air is chilly, seeping through his varsity jacket and making goosebumps pop up on his arms.

Yuuri walks further from the party, following the path that leads out to the front yard. He kicks up leaves as he goes and curls in on himself when a gust of wind makes him feel even colder. For a brief moment, he wonders if he should go back inside, find Phichit so they can head back to their apartment and call it a night.

But then he hears the singing.

It’s probably the worst sound he’s ever heard, a loud and offkey tribute to Cher’s greatest hits. He would not be surprised if it was coming from a wailing cat, but when Yuuri turns the corner and puts a face to the voice, he freezes.

It’s _Victor_ , Vicino University’s art legend and Yuuri’s longtime crush.

_What is he doing out here?_

“Yuuri!”

_...And how does he know my name when we’ve never talked before?_

Reluctantly, Yuuri wanders to where Victor is sprawled out on the ground and shoves his hands into his pockets.

“Uh… hi?” Yuuri says under his breath, eyes darting away from Victor’s relaxed form.

“Hi,” Victor says with a lazy smile. He pushes up into a sitting position and lets his long hair fall all around him like a waterfall, looking like an ethereal creature in the moonlight. A flower crown crafted from silk blue roses sits discarded at his feet, petals soaked with what looks to be spilled punch, if the empty red solo cup is any indication.

“Are you okay?” Yuuri asks after walking a little bit closer. He crouches down to Victor’s level and sits cross-legged on the freezing ground. “How did you end up out here?”

Victor hums under his breath and gazes skyward, head lolling backwards. “I don’t remember,” he says in a low, slurred voice, then breaks out in hiccupy giggles. “I don’t _remember_! How funny is that?”

Yuuri watches as Victor falls back to the ground, still giggling like a schoolboy with a secret. He curls up on his side, humming the song he was singing before until it fades out and his eyes close.

“You can’t fall asleep here,” Yuuri says as he reaches forward, jostling Victor.

Victor’s eyes fly open and he pouts. “Why nooooot?”

“Because the ground is dirty and you’ll hurt yourself,” Yuuri says. He offers his hand for Victor to take, but when Victor just stares at him like he’s an alien, so Yuuri sighs and gets up, pulls Victor’s arm over his shoulders, and yanks him up from the ground. With a stumble, they both fall forward until Yuuri steadies them and begins dragging Victor back towards the party.

“Who did you come here with?” Yuuri asks.

“Don’t remember,” Victor says, leaning into Yuuri’s side.

“What _do_ you remember?” Yuuri says.

“Hm… I was dancing with… someone. And I drank a lot.”

“...And?”

“And what?”

“And what else? How did you get outside, singing along to _If I Could Turn Back Time?_ ”

Victor shakes his head and shrugs. “I’m sorry… I don’t know.”

Yuuri lets out a sigh and closes his eyes. What is he going to do? Chances are that Victor came with Christophe, who is probably as drunk as Victor. If he handed him Victor right now, they’d both end up in the back of an alley somewhere, wasted and vulnerable while they sing the best of Broadway. It’s not safe, which means there is only one thing he can do.

“C’mon,” Yuuri says as he begins walking towards the sidewalk. “I’m taking you home.”

“Home,” Victor mutters under his breath like it’s a foreign concept. “Home?”

“To the apartments,” Yuuri clarifies, gesturing to the line of weather-worn brick edifices in the distance. “Uh… that’s where you live, right?”

Victor squints into the distance for a moment before his face lights up in recognition. “Riiiight,” he says, long and drawn out. He digs into his pocket and pulls out a keychain, wiggling it in the air. “Apartment seven-o-five,” he says, lips popping the last word. He glances over at Yuuri and says, “How did you know that?”

_Because I saw you walking home after baseball practice a few months ago and not-so-accidentally followed you?_

But instead of admitting to that, Yuuri just shrugs. “Phichit knows everything about everyone on campus. He told me a while ago.”

Not a lie, but not the truth, either.

Luckily, Victor is too far gone to question it. He just nods in quick, jerky movements before trying to take a step forward.

“Whoa, where are you going?” Yuuri asks.

Victor looks at Yuuri like he just asked him why the sky is blue, or how astrophysics work. “Going home?”

“By walking?”

“Why not?”

“You’re drunk and live five blocks away,” Yuuri reminds him. When Victor gapes back, Yuuri grabs his own keys from his pocket and jingles them in front of Victor’s face. “I’m not carrying you there; we’re driving.”

Victor looks like he’s going to protest, but doesn’t get the chance before Yuuri is pulling him along towards his rust-colored Toyota Corolla a few steps away. He unlocks it and pulls open the door, then carefully helps Victor duck his head and get inside. When he is buckled up, Yuuri makes his way to the other side, sliding in behind the wheel and buckling up himself. He’s about to turn on the car, but in his peripheral vision he catches glimpse of Victor rubbing his hands together, teeth chattering from the cold.

It’s only then that Yuuri realizes that Victor’s not dressed for the chilly night. His t-shirt is thin enough that Yuuri can see skin through it, and there was no coat lying around where Yuuri found him. If Yuuri, wearing his jacket, thermal t-shirt, and undershirt is chilly, then Victor must be freezing.

“Here,” Yuuri says, shrugging out of his coat and holding it out for Victor to take, “take my jacket; it’s cold outside.”

Victor gapes at the coat like it’s a precious heirloom, fingers coming up to gently brush against it. “You… want me to wear your jacket?” he tries to say, but it comes out slightly slurred.

“Yes, please. I know the drive is short, but I don’t want you catching hypothermia.”

“Wow, amazing,” Victor whispers under his breath, eyes wide and lit up. He drapes the jacket over his shoulders and says, “Thanks, Yuuri.”

“No problem,” Yuuri replies. He jiggles his key in the ignition until his car roars to life, then buckles up and pulls onto the winding street. “Now, let’s get you home.”

The drive to Victor’s apartment is only five minutes, but in that time Yuuri feels like Victor asks a thousand questions. Yuuri’s an international student like Victor, so where did he grow up? Does he have a dog? Is it a poodle? Does Yuuri like poodles? Every question comes before Yuuri can answer the last one, and eventually he gives up trying to respond and lets Victor talk to himself until they pull up outside of the familiar, brick apartments.

He’s in the middle of asking what Yuuri’s favorite food is when Yuuri interrupts.

“We’re here,” Yuuri interjects, unbuckling and pushing open the door.

Victor stops talking and glances up at the building. “Oh, I guess we are.” He unbuckles himself and pulls Yuuri’s jacket off of his shoulders, offering it back.

Yuuri shakes his head. “We still have to walk outside, Victor. Please, wear it.”

Victor once again gapes at the jacket as if in disbelief, but eventually puts it on. The arms are a bit short, and when Victor zips it closed the material tugs tightly over his chest, but it looks...good on him. Great, even. Something about the red and white fabric accentuates the blueness of his eyes, making them brighter than usual. He pulls his hair out from the jacket and pulls an elastic hair tie from his pocket, perching it between his teeth as he gathers his hair and ties it up into a bun.

Yuuri feels his throat run dry.

“Something wrong?” Victor asks, raising an eyebrow.

Yuuri blinks a few times and steps out of the car. “Nothing!” he squeaks out while he walks to Victor’s side, trying to will away the redness that he can feel blooming on his cheeks. “Uh, let’s get you inside, okay?”

“Hm,” Victor hums under his breath, tiny smile on his face. “That sounds nice.”

Yuuri nods and helps Victor out of the car. He’s a _little_ better than before in that he’s not tripping on thin air, but Yuuri still holds most of his weight, guiding Victor through the revolving doors and into the rickety elevator. Victor hums more Cher songs as they ascend to the seventh floor, but goes quiet once they walk out into the narrow hallway. They pass several rooms, some with doors ajar, others firmly closed, before they arrive at room 705. Victor pulls his keys from his pocket and, with Yuuri’s assistance, opens the door and turns on the lights.

The first thing Yuuri notices about the apartment is that it’s impeccably clean. No dirty bowls in the sink, no random socks or shoes lying around, no old pizza boxes or beer bottles. Blankets are folded and placed neatly next their entertainment system, and the fluffiest poodle Yuuri’s ever seen is curled up on a dog bed in the corner, sleeping soundly next to a bucket of toys. It’s the complete opposite of his and Phichit’s apartment, which looks like a hurricane went through it on most days.

“Yuuuuuri,” Victor lulls in a low and slightly teasing voice. “Are you just going to stand there or are you going to take me to bed?”

“I… I… uh…” Yuuri stammers and nearly loses his grip on Victor, tumbling forward a little until he balances them both again. “Ye-yes!” he manages to get out, blushing all the way to Victor’s room.

Unlike the rest of the apartment, Victor’s room is chaos. Huge art books are splayed across the floor, all open to pages on Leonardo da Vinci’s work. T-shirts and pants and coats are piled up on the bed, desk, office chair. The trashcan is overflowing with crumpled up papers and old paint tubes, uncapped pens and pencils that have been sharpened down to their nubs.

But Yuuri barely pays the mess any notice, because he’s transfixed on Victor’s art.

It’s _everywhere_. The charcoal drawing that was featured in the college’s art magazine is taped to the wall. The homecoming flyer Victor designed for the football team is pinned to a corkboard. _Life & Love_, an abstract painting that won Victor first place at the Vicino Art Festival (and made Yuuri fall in love with his work) is resting against a mirror, blue ribbon still attached.

Yuuri’s seen this work countless times before, at galleries and art shows and in the art classroom hallways, but its an entirely different experience, seeing the art he admires so much up close.

Beautiful. All of it, beautiful.

Victor lets out a quiet moan, and it’s only then that Yuuri remembers that he has a job to do. Being careful not to step on anything, Yuuri tiptoes through the maze of paper until he reaches the bed and carefully lays Victor down. He makes quick work of untying Victor’s shoes, tossing them to the side, then grabs the bottle of Advil he sees perched on Victor’s dresser and lays it on the nightstand. Victor’s already drifting off, head lolled on his pillow when he looks over, so Yuuri carefully leaves the room and makes his way to the kitchen, rummaging around until he finds a glass and fills it up with tap water. He returns to Victor’s room quietly, trying to make as little noise as possible as he puts the glass down and pulls a trashcan near the bed, knowing that more likely than not, Victor will need it later. Then, after double checking that he’s in a position where he won’t choke on his own vomit, Yuuri brushes the hair from Victor’s eyes and takes a step back.

“Goodnight, Victor,” he whispers, turning around so he’s facing the door again.

“Stay.”

Yuuri turns quicker than he thought possible. “What?”

“Stay with me,” Victor mutters into the pillow, lazily gesturing to the tiny empty space on the twin-sized bed. “Don’t leave. Don’t want you to leave.”

Yuuri’s heart beats like a hummingbird’s at those words. Victor wants _him_ to stay? Sleep in his bed? _Why?_ Besides this little midnight adventure, they’re basically strangers. Victor doesn’t know him from Adam. Yuuri’s chickened out of talking to him any chance he got, so why would Victor want him to stay? He doesn’t understand.

That is, until he trips backwards and knocks one of Victor’s sketchbooks off of the nightstand.

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” Yuuri exclaims, bending to gather the pieces that fell out. “I’ll clean it u—”

He freezes. Does a double take. Shakes his head back and forth. No, it can’t be.

The drawing on the ground is of _him_. There’s no mistaking it. Victor’s portraits are always incredibly realistic and this one is no exception. On creased paper, Yuuri is gazing off into the distance, sitting on what looks to be the football field’s bleachers. His eyes look focused, as if there is something on his mind, and his body is taut, sitting up as straight as he can. This must’ve been drawn a few weeks ago when Yuuri was told he’d be the starting quarterback at the next game. He’s never played anything but backup, but Takeshi was injured and Coach Cialdini thought it was his turn to bask in the limelight. When he got the news he was afraid, elated, confused all at once, just like his expression in the drawing.

Yuuri pushes it aside and is greeted with even more renderings of himself. A sketch of his eyes, drawn in charcoal, pops out against a bright white page. A napkin filled with doodles has one of him in chibi form. All mixed in with drawings of Victor’s friends, his dog, various still lifes from class, as if Yuuri were a part of his daily life.

He can’t believe it. All of these years Yuuri’s been watching Victor, pining for his attention, his time, his affection. How long has Victor been doing the same? Watching him, memorizing his every angle, archiving his face in paint and graphite and pen?

Yuuri’s heart beats a thousand miles a minute. What does this mean? Why him, of all people? He has a thousand questions, ones he wants, no, _needs_ answers to.

But when he turns his head, opens his mouth to ask why Victor has a whole collection of him, he finds Victor curled up in a ball, eyes closed and face peaceful with rest.

Yuuri bites his lip and glances back down at the art pieces in his hand. Waking up Victor now to talk about this would be fruitless. He’s still drunk and probably won’t remember anything, and really, does he want to have a conversation as important as this with a man who couldn’t stop singing Cher songs a few minutes ago? No, this is a conversation for the morning, one after they’ve both had coffee and Victor has taken at least two Advils.

Which means that for now, all he can do is push it aside and try to get some rest.

Yuuri sighs and picks up the sketches, placing them back on Victor’s nightstand. He arranges them into a pile and tucks them carefully away, but lingers on his portrait. For some reason, he can’t get himself to put it back with the others, as if his fingers are glued to the paper.

So he doesn’t. Instead, Yuuri folds along the edges until the portrait is in a perfect rectangle. He pushes up from the floor, tucks it away in his back pocket. Instead of crawling into bed like Victor wanted, Yuuri pulls the bunched-up covers over Victor and tucks him in tight, hoping it’s enough to protect him from the chilliness in the room. He flicks off the light, letting his gaze linger on Victor’s sleeping form for a few quick, fleeting seconds before he walks towards the door and closes it gently.

When he emerges back into the living area, he grabs two blankets from the pile and lays down on the nearby couch, propping one blanket under his head as a makeshift pillow. He twists and turns until he is in a somewhat comfortable position, then reaches over, turns off the light, and closes his eyes, thinking of Victor until exhaustion takes over and he falls into a quiet, peaceful sleep.

* * *

When Victor opens his eyes, he immediately wants to close them again. The light filtering in through the window is blinding, his head is pounding. His whole body feels like it’s been run over by a truck.

What _happened_ last night? Somehow he ended up back in his room, but something feels… off. Not right. He pushes up onto the palms of his hands and tries to backtrack. The last thing he remembers is Mila baiting him into another round of that disgusting witches brew, claiming that one more drink couldn’t hurt, could it? Victor, already a drunken mess, took the glass from her hand and gulped down the drink as fast as he could, declaring that he was invincible, that nothing could hold him down.

Everything after that is just a blur.

Groaning, Victor throws himself back onto the bed and curls up in the covers. _Think_ , he berates himself. _Try to remember anything at all._ He curls his fingers into the fabric and pulls his bottom lip between his teeth. Looking back, he remembers… singing. Lots of singing. A guy with black hair helping him off the ground. Loving the feeling of being carried, of someone’s body warmth next to his.

And a jacket. He was given a jacket.

Victor bolts upright and stares down at his arms. Sure enough, they’re not bare like they were when he left the apartment, but instead are covered in off-white sleeves, ones that are a bit short. How did he get it? Who gave it to him? _Why can’t he recall anything?_

He pushes his palms against his eyes until he sees stars and groggily stumbles out of bed, immediately cringing when he hears the telltale crunch of paper under his foot.

“Shit,” Victor mutters, crouching down to pick up whatever piece he just stepped on. At first he thinks he’s in the clear, it’s only a blank page, but when he flips it around, Yuuri’s face smiles back at him.

 _Yuuri_.

Oh no.

Victor jolts upwards and turns to face his full-length mirror. He looks _awful_ with hair falling out of his bun, dark marks under his eyes, crumpled t-shirt and grass-stained pants. But what catches his attention, makes him freeze, is the bold 67 on the front of the jacket.

67 is Yuuri’s number. This is Yuuri’s jacket.

How the _hell_ did he end up with Yuuri’s jacket?

A crash from the living room tears Victor’s gaze away from the mirror. Chris always stays at Masumi’s after a party, always hoping to lure his lover into a round two… or three… or four, if he’s feeling real lucky. Also, there is no way Chris would be coherent enough to leave Victor Advil and water on his nightstand, which only leaves two options.

Either Makkachin grew opposable thumbs overnight, or Yuuri is here.

He hopes it’s the first one, because if Yuuri’s here, that means he took Victor home. He saw him drunk out of his mind. He probably thinks Victor’s a party animal who can’t hold his liquor.

What a mess.

With a sigh, Victor carefully opens the door and makes his way towards the kitchen, trying to prepare himself for whatever may be waiting for him.

Turns out, there is nothing that could prepare him for this.

Behind the counter, Yuuri is humming a Cher song under his breath while he flips pancakes on a griddle Victor didn’t even know they had. His eyes are focused on Makkachin, who is begging for scraps at his feet, and is clearly unaware that Victor’s in the room. He looks… happy. At peace. Not disgusted or annoyed like he’d been expecting.

“Ahem,” Victor croaks. Yuuri nearly jumps ten feet in the air at the noise and sends Makka darting back to her bed in fear. “Sorry,” Victor says in a low voice. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Yuuri ducks his head (adorably, if Victor may add) and says, “No, uh. You’re fine. I’m sorry I kinda just…” he gestures at the dirty bowls and bubbling pancakes. “I just thought after last night you’d need a good breakfast and you weren’t up and you had all the stuff for it—”

“Yuuri,” Victor interjects, which makes Yuuri jump once more. “Thank you. Really, no need to apologize.”

“Oh, okay,” Yuuri whispers in a low voice that makes Victor’s heart flutter. He gestures to the barstool by the counter and says, “Uh, these will be ready in a couple of minutes if you want some. I couldn’t find the syrup though.”

“It’s fine,” Victor says. He wanders over to the pantry and pulls out a bottle, along with some sad excuse for butter from the fridge. “I hope this is okay; Chris is on some vegan diet and won’t let my buy the real thing.”

“Whatever you have works,” Yuuri mumbles quietly, then turns back to the pancakes and avoids Victor’s gaze.

He slides into the barstool across from Yuuri and props his elbows up on the countertop. The silence between them speaks volumes. Last night still lingers in the air, like Chris’s “authentic” French cologne that smells like feet. It’s overbearing, oppressive, uncomfortable. Yuuri won’t look at him for more than five seconds, which makes Victor’s gut chun with nerves. What happened? What is Yuuri not telling him?

“See how these taste,” Yuuri says as he slides a tower of pancakes onto a plate and passes it over. Victor takes it with a nod of thanks and gets to work spreading copious amounts of butter and syrup on them before taking his first bite.

“Oh my god,” Victor moans around his food, “this is _heavenly._ ”

Yuuri raises an eyebrow at him. “Really?”

“Yes! These are the best pancakes I’ve ever had.”

Yuuri smiles at that. “Uh, thanks,” he replies.

Victor goes to town on his breakfast, popping bite after bite into his mouth. He wasn’t lying; the pancakes are delicious, fluffy and wonderful. But about halfway through, Victor notices Yuuri swaying back and forth, eyes staring a hole into his untouched breakfast.

His appetite disappears.

“Yuuri…,” Victor says, carefully pushing his plate away. “...What happened last night?”

Yuuri lets out a elongated sigh and rummages around in his pocket, pulling out a folded up sheet of paper. He carefully unfolds it and lays it facedown on the countertop, then slides it over without a word.

With trepidation, Victor reaches forward and flips the paper upright—

—then immediately feels his face go white at what he finds.

He remembers finding Yuuri on the football field a few weeks ago, staring out into the distance with this longing, blank stare on his face. The setting sun basked his profile in harsh shadow, emphasizing the tenseness of his body. He looked terrified, confused, lost.

But also beautiful. Incredibly, impossibly, beautiful.

Victor practically ran the five blocks back to his apartment that night, pulled out his sketchbook and immediately got to work. Nothing seemed more important than immortalizing that image, and when his piece was finished and Victor held it up to the light, he swore it was his best work yet. Shame that nobody would ever see it.

Now though, with Yuuri looking at him with concern and Victor’s face burning hotter than the surface of the sun, he longs for that anonymity. How did Yuuri find this?

“Your sketchbook fell off of your nightstand and I… uh… picked it up,” he mumbles while he looks away, and Victor feels embarrassment clutch his chest.

“I’m guessing you want some answers,” Victor says in barely a whisper. He coughs once to clear his throat, then folds his hands in front of him. “What do you want to know?”

“Well,” Yuuri begins, gesturing to the drawing acting as a barrier between them, “I guess I want to know… why me?”

“Huh?”

“Why me?” Yuuri repeats. He pokes at his pancakes with a fork and glances up at Victor from under his eyelashes. “Out of everyone on this campus, why did you choose to draw me?”

Victor gulps and lets his hair fall into his face, a curtain against the confession he doesn’t want to make. What does he tell him? That he’s the most gorgeous man Victor’s ever seen? That Yuuri’s the best muse he’s ever had? That he could draw him for hours, _wants_ to draw him for hours? That more than anything, he wants to get to know the man that pulled him from his creative slump and inspired some of his greatest pieces?

He can’t say any of that. So instead Victor remains quiet, hoping beyond hope that Yuuri will disappear from view and he’ll wake up from this nightmare.

But, of course, no such thing happens. Yuuri raises an eyebrow at him, clearly waiting for him to say something, anything. When he doesn’t, Yuuri pushes on.

“Okay, another question then. Why so many drawings of me? I can’t be that interesting, can I? I mean,” Yuuri pauses and laughs humorlessly as he gestures to himself. “I’m just… ordinary.”

Now that makes Victor perk up and look through the curtain of hair. “Ordinary?”

“Uh… yeah?” Yuuri says. “I guess that’s what’s confusing me the most. Why choose such a boring subject for your pieces?”

 _Ordinary. Boring_. Does Yuuri really think that about himself?

“You’re anything but,” Victor says under his breath. He holds back, wonders if he should say more, but one look at Yuuri’s confused face makes the decision for him.

 _Screw it_.

“You know why I draw you so much? Why I chose you for my muse?” he asks, standing up from his barstool to wander the little space between Makkachin and kitchen instead. “It’s because you’re not ordinary at all. When I first saw you all those years ago, I was in a slump. I could create beautiful art, but it had no soul, no passion behind it. And what’s the point of art if it doesn’t evoke something in you?” He pauses and looks Yuuri in the eye. “I was lost when I came here, and not just because I was in a strange land, speaking a strange language. I forgot what it meant to be an artist, to feel something when I create. I almost gave it up after my first semester, but my advisor told me to stick it out until the end of the year, said that maybe I’d find my inspiration in an unlikely place. I didn’t believe her; Dr. Baranovskaya was always going on about what it feels like to experience true beauty, but I never connected with it.

“That is… until I saw you, outside of Agape Hall with Phichit Chulanont, laughing as he threw a snowball at you. The image of you with your head thrown back, looking so free, it… spoke to me. In a way nothing else had for months.” He shrugs. “I went back to my apartment that night and painted for hours, until _Life & Love_ was born.”

Yuuri stares at him, motionless and clearly at a loss for words. “I… wha… what?”

Victor can’t help it; he laughs softy at Yuuri’s shock and says, “You were the sole inspiration for that piece, Yuuri. You’re the reason I won first place at the biggest art festival in the state. I couldn’t have even come close to winning if it weren’t for you sparking my inspiration.”

“No,” Yuuri whispers, like it’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard. He slides into the barstool Victor abandoned and pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “That can’t be possible.”

“And why not? I wasn’t kidding earlier, Yuuri. You’re extraordinary.”

Yuuri doesn’t respond to that, instead he just gets up, walks over to the kitchen, and begins cleaning up the mess breakfast made, not saying a word.

“Oh, don’t clean that up. You’ve already done too much already,” Victor says. He wanders over to Yuuri’s side and tries to take the dirty bowl from his hands, but Yuuri pulls it away from his reach.

“No, really. Please, uh… this is a lot to take in and this will help me process it. Sorry.”

“Fair enough, but at least let me help,” Victor says, nudging Yuuri with his hip so he’ll move to the side. Yuuri obliges, and makes room for Victor at the sink before turning on the water and silently handing Victor a towel for drying.

The two of them get to work, not saying a word. Yuuri diligently scrubs away at each dish before handing it off to Victor, who puts it away. It’s so domestic, would’ve been perfect if the air weren’t filled with unsaid words and rippling tension.

Victor’s halfway through drying off a plate when he can’t take it anymore.

“Yuuri, I’m sorry.”

Yuuri snaps his head up and turns to look at Victor properly. “Sorry? For what?”

“For… all of this. For using you as my muse without your permission, for getting so drunk you had to haul me home, for making this whole situation incredibly akward.” He laughs humorlessly, puts the plate down on the countertop and tosses his hands in the air. “For watching you from afar like a coward, when all I’ve wanted for years is to ask you out.”

Yuuri’s face turns a beautiful shade of red. “You…wanted to ask me out?”

Victor nods, curls in on himself like a chastised puppy. “Chris has been nagging me for months about it, but I kept coming up with excuses not to.” He gestures between them. “But I guess now that’s all shot to hell, huh?”

Yuuri shifts in place, letting his last bowl fall into the soapy water. He grabs a nearby paper towel and dries his hands off, clearly trying to do anything to distract from the awkwardness between them. Victor’s heart aches at the sight. He’s seen Yuuri in many forms over the years: elated, afraid, tentative, confused. But he’s never seen him this uncomfortable.

He can’t let this go on any longer. It’s time.

“I’m sorry for all of this,” Victor says in a low voice. “I… never wanted our first meeting to go this way.”

“Victor—“

“Please, no need to say anything,” Victor interrupts. He makes his way towards the door and pulls it open, holding Makka back when she excitedly trots over and tries to escape. He lets his free hand curl into her fur and lets his eyes glance down at her wide, brown eyes. Anything to avoid the pitying look Yuuri’s probably giving him. “I’m feeling fine now. No need to stick around. I promise I won’t bother you again.”

“Victor, listen—“

“I’m an idiot, I really am. And I’m sorry you were in the middle of all of this—“

“Victor, for the love of all things holy, please shut up,” Yuuri interrupts, which makes Victor’s words fizzle on his tongue.

He turns around, closes the door, lets Makkachin run away from him and into his bedroom. When he looks up, he expects to find Yuuri ready to give him a piece of his mind.

But he doesn’t find that at all. Instead, he finds Yuuri smiling at him, looking absolutely radiant.

“I’m not mad,” Yuuri says. “I’m…flattered.”

“Flattered?”

Yuuri nods. “I mean, I inspired my favorite painting. That’s pretty amazing, don’t you think?”

“Your favorite painting… you know my work?”

Yuuri lets out a quiet laugh and says, “You’re not the only one who’s been uh, people watching the past few years. I’ve been kinda a super-fan of your art for awhile now.”

Victor startles at that. “Super-fan?”

“I know, it’s kinda embarrassing,” he says. “I’ve been to all of your art shows, I’ve seen every gallery exhibition you’ve ever participated in. And,” Yuuri pauses, flicking his gaze to the ground while his face turns a brilliant shade of crimson. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you for years, but I never had the nerve.” He laughs, shrugs his shoulders and says, “So I guess we’re both cowards, then.”

“Wow,” Victor whispers. He leans back against the lip of his couch and curls his fingers over the edge, resisting the urge to pinch himself. This can’t be real, can it? Yuuri, in his apartment, confessing his feelings after making the most delicious breakfast Victor’s ever had? No, he has to be dreaming. Things like this only happen in cheesy romance novels.

But when Yuuri walks forward and tentivily takes Victor’s hand in his, all doubt slips from his mind. Somehow, someway, this is real. _Yuuri_ is real.

“Listen, we were both idiots,” Yuuri says as he stares at their clasped hands. “But I like you. A lot. And I want to start over, do this right.” He lets Victor’s fingers slip from his grasp to nervously wring his hands together instead. “So, there’s a really good Thai restaurant across town, the only one in a fifty mile radius Phichit endorses. Would...you go with me? Tonight?”

Victor can’t believe it. It feels like his heart is going to burst out of his chest, that his pure elation is going to be seen by the entire world. He wants to do much more than get dinner; he wants to take Yuuri out for drinks, show him his art studio, dance with him until the sun comes up. He wants to talk to Yuuri for hours, learning about the man who has inspired him so much over these past few years. He wants to know Yuuri, all of Yuuri, in any way he can.

But this, tonight, is a start. A new beginning.

Victor reaches over and retakes Yuuri’s hand in his. He brings his knuckles up to his lips, and leaves one soft, chaste kiss before smiling as bright as the sun itself and saying three words that may change his life forever.

“I’d love to.”


End file.
